


Tall

by ConflictingOpinions



Series: Tall [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: No one is comfortable with this, Sam is tall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConflictingOpinions/pseuds/ConflictingOpinions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody thought Sam was going to get anywhere near tall, let alone become a 6' 4" giant. But that's what happened. They're all having a little trouble accepting this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tall

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first one-shot in a series of one-shots about (as you've probably guessed) Sam's height. None of the stories are particularly connected aside from the main subject. Some of them might get a little cracky or au-ish. You have been warned.

Bobby was having some trouble finding solid information on Quinkans. They were pretty rare, native to Australia. The only way to get rid of them that he could find was smoke, and that was very temporary. He only had a few books left that might have something useful. For once, his resources were wearing thin. At least he had some cheap labor to help lighten the workload.

John and the boys were in the area, and decided to join him on the hunt. Bobby hadn't told them, but he was planning on this job being his last. He was just too old and creaky to do much more than research anymore. He grumbled to himself and slammed the book he had been skimming shut.

“Hey Sam,” He called. The boy – young man by now, actually – looked up. “Grab me that book on the fifth shelf. The one with the red spine.”

Sam complied, unfolding himself carefully from the armchair he occupied. Bobby turned back to check his notes, smirking a little. Sam was a shrimp, always had been, always would be. He'd try to reach the fifth shelf (second from the top, which mainly held guns), fail, and grudgingly drag the old step-stool from the kitchen into the study. It was practically routine.

Bobby tilted his head back and smiled. Even Dean, the tallest of all of them, had trouble reaching the fifth shelf without a boost. He listened for the disappointed huff and the clunk-screech of the stool across his wood floors. It didn't come.

Frowning slightly, Bobby looked over to Sam and – oh. Damn. Sam had gotten  _ big _ . Really big. Unnaturally big. When had that happened? Bobby gaped. Lifting an eyebrow, Sam handed him the book. “Is this the right one Bobby?” He asked. Bobby just nodded. 

“Hey, you okay?” His voice had gotten a lot deeper, too.

“Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be? Get back to work, ya idjit.” Bobby growled.

Sam didn't notice the shocked glances Bobby kept sending his way for the rest of the visit.

~o0o~

Dean was degrading Sam. Not in a particularly cruel way, but not in a playful, loving way either. Sam had thought what they were hunting was a simple poltergeist. More difficult than a ghost, but still easy enough. It had turned out to be a Blackdog. Much more difficult to get rid of, and a lot more dangerous.

They'd gone in with rock salt and iron when they'd needed silver and fire. Luckily, they'd all managed to get out with minimal injuries, but the whole job had been pretty much compromised. John had left the motel room to “clear his head” after being patched up. It had fallen on Dean to chew Sam out for his mistake.

“What do you want me to do Dean, huh? What do you want me to say? 'I'm sorry that I thought the deaths that completely matched the profile for a poltergeist turned out to be because of a Blackdog'? I messed up! I get it! I apologized over and over! What more do you want?”

“Maybe for you to stop acting like a little bitch and start acting like a hunter!”

“What's your problem Dean?”

“It's not my problem, Sammy, it's yours. You're reckless, you're undisciplined, hell, Sammy, you...'re taller than me.” By a good two inches or so. When... no, scratch that,  _ how _ ? Sam had always been short. The few times they actually took him in for an annual, the doctors had said he wasn't going to get much taller than 5' 7”. And here he was, towering over Dean.

Sam looked down at himself, as if only just now realizing his bulk. Jesus, he had that too. He was over six feet of solid muscle. Sam glanced up at Dean. Somehow he still managed to do that. Dean growled and scrubbed at his face. Clearly, he was in some freaky mirror universe in which his puny baby brother had miraculously turned into Sasquatch's estranged cousin. Because there's no way that could happen in real life. Nope.

He must have said at least some of that out loud, because he could vaguely hear the newly low rumble of Sam laughing at him as he walked out the door to get drunk with his dad.

~o0o~

John and Sam were arguing. Again. It was getting pretty common these days. John wasn't sure what had started this particular fight, but he knew the basic idea. Sam wanted to be “normal”, he wanted to go to college, stop hunting. He wanted to leave. John couldn't let that happen, because how could he take care of his baby boy if he was god-knows-how-many miles away?

Sam was sitting on one of the ratty motel beds, crumpled in on himself, but matching John's volume with every retort. Every time one of them opened their mouths, the words got harsher. John knew the moment he had crossed the line. He didn't know what he had said, his brain was too beer-addled to remember, but he knew he said it. He could pinpoint the exact moment because that was when Sam got quiet.

Sam's mouth snapped shut, he stopped talking, breathed heavily through his nose. His body tensed, puffed with anger, and, jaw twitching, Sam stood. He squared his shoulders, loomed over John, glaring down at him. And  _ that _ was the exact moment that John sobered up. Because his Sammy, his baby boy, looked ready, willing, and well more than able to snap him like a toothpick. Better men than John would have cowered at the sight.

Sam spoke then, voice low and dangerous. “Maybe,” he growled, “if you'd given a rat's ass about your sons instead of your pointless vendetta once in a while, one of them wouldn't be trying to get away from you. But see, you never did that, and I know you never will.”

John didn't say anything. He didn't move, either. Just blinked like a deer in the headlights as Sam snagged his jacket off the foot of his too-small bed and walked out of the room, bending over to fit himself through the door. John had screwed up. He knew that. But for some reason, the only thought his drunken mind could muster was  _ When did Sammy get so huge _ ?

John muttered angrily at himself as he tried to unearth his bottle of scotch and a shot glass. He wasn't even halfway drunk enough to deal with this.

~o0o~

The Winchesters and Bobby were at a diner in Vanderpool, Texas at the butt-crack of dawn. Sam had been nominated to pick up the food from the counter because he hadn't had the chance to sit down yet. He had grumbled drowsily, but eventually acquiesced, too tired to argue. He knocked his head on a rafter on the way to the front.

The three men at the table sat there, waiting for their food and caffeine, trying not to doze off in the booth. Dean made the mistake of looking up when he heard a high-pitched giggle, and was greeted with the sight of a waitress practically throwing herself at Sammy while he smiled and nodded awkwardly, trying to grab their tray without touching her boobs. It was pitiful, really. Both of them. But mainly Sam.

Once he had finally managed to snatch their breakfast out of the waitress' hands and made his way back to the table, Sam slid into the booth. Or tried to, anyway. He had considerable difficulty folding himself up small enough to actually sit without his legs hanging out in the aisle. As it was, he sat with his shoulders hunched over and his knees uncomfortably mashed against the bottom of the table. John, Dean, and Bobby would have found this highly amusing, if it weren't Sam having this problem. Because really. Sam was supposed to be short.  _ Short _ , dammit! 

All any of them could do was push their pancakes around on their plates and gape as Sam inhaled his unreasonably large breakfast. And he still looked hungry enough to have seconds.  _ Please, God,  _ they all prayed silently,  _ If you actually exist, and if you're even listening, don't let him get any bigger. _

God, of course, was not listening. And even if he was, he wouldn't have given a damn.


End file.
